Bottles of Sand
by radiany
Summary: What Love isn't. Jounouchi likes curtains and pretty things. Kaiba sleeps and watches. [KaiJou, starring delusional!Jounouchi and sadistic!Kaiba]


**Labels **shonen-ai/yaoi; OOC; alternate universe [au]; repetition; breaking down; angst; non-con of sorts; lots of denial; oneshot; drabble; pg13

**[beforehand]**

Rather dark with angsting!Jounouchi. This is inspired by and is probably based off of Michi MinYin Chu's "A Good Kind of Hurt." The word "pretty" is used repeatedly in order to **make a** **point** [after a few confused remarks on livejournal].

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**Bottles of Sand**

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His legs hurt.

This is his first thought, the first one after he wakes up. The second one is that he's cold, and he finds that it's because he's lost his half of the sheets somewhere. It's warm under him because of body heat but he doesn't notice it because he's too busy thinking that it's too dark in the room.

It shouldn't be dark in the room.

This is his third thought. It shouldn't be dark because he doesn't want it to be dark.

When he was younger, his windows would always be covered with curtains because he was living with both his parents and his mother liked to put lacy curtains on every window because it was pretty. He couldn't help but think that it was pretty too, because they'd always be covered with flowers or animals or soccer balls and it was pretty. He liked them too, because he liked to feel in control and he felt in control because he could open or close the pretty curtains anytime he wanted so that it was dark or light in the room. When it was nighttime, he would turn on a light or a lamp, and watch as a glow lit the room and was muffled by the pretty curtains laced around them, because his mother thought it was pretty.

Then his mother and father divorced and he didn't live with both of them at the same time anymore. His father didn't put pretty curtains on the windows or the lamps because he thought the idea was stupid and girlish. In fact, his father didn't put curtains at all, because he said they were too expensive. Now he wasn't in control anymore, and the room was dark or light by the night and the day and he couldn't control it anymore.

He lived with Seto now, but Seto didn't have pretty curtains either. It was okay though, because every window was covered with solid red curtains with golden tassels to string them and they were velvet and deep, flower red so it was still all very nice, just not pretty. The color of the curtains reminded him of the time there were deep, flower red roses sitting at his desk that made everyone flock over like birds to come and coo over them like doves and ask who gave them to him relentless times like squabbling pigeons. He knew that Seto had sent them because Seto was sitting at his desk looking smug like a peacock and he knew that Seto had sent them because it was a secret claim that now you are mine, forever and ever. He didn't complain because the roses were pretty and Seto loved him because he sent them and they were pretty.

They were like the rose petals he found one day on their bed, scattered like the wind blew them and he knew Seto had sprinkled them over the sheets like water because Seto was the water and the wind and the roses. It was so very pretty and he knew Seto loved him because he dashed them there. That night, Seto had embraced him and kissed him and loved him on that bed of roses and it was all very sweet and so lovely and pretty and he knew Seto loved him because it was all for him and him alone. He never questioned Seto's love and Seto never questioned his, because he knew that Seto loved him with the deepest love and that he loved Seto too.

Seto let him open the curtains the next morning and there was light flooding the room and it was all so _pretty_.

But when he had looked up at the sun, basked in glory and love and hate and passion and obsession, he found that this wasn't love at all.

He'd always thought that Love was a pretty young girl you saw in the park one day, all flowing hair and gorgeous eyes and whispering laugh. He'd always thought that Love was that same pretty young girl when you exchanged numbers and called her on Saturday and made a date on Sunday even though it was church day and all the others would laugh and say and wish that they were with Love again. He'd always thought that Love was meeting the girl at the park again except it was at night when all the pretty stars were out and shone in the sky and you took her by the hand and led her to a restaurant and had a lovely dinner before going to the movies and buying tickets to a horror film and watching it together even though you were scared as well but did it just to have her hold your hand and to have her hide her face in your shoulder. He'd always thought that Love was walking that girl, that pretty young girl to her doorstep and leaning up with a hesitant goodnight on your lips and kissing her briefly, innocently. He'd thought that Love was bringing that girl to your parents and watching them greet her with delight before you married that girl in a white-aspen church in a black, black tuxedo with her in a white-lily wedding gown.

But sometimes things never turn out the way you knew it to be.

This wasn't love.

Love was not Seto kisses on his face and hair and eyelids as they made love in a rose covered bed. Love was not tucking Seto's hair behind his ears and leaning down to kiss him before they had breakfast. Love was not being ignored throughout the day because they couldn't afford to be seen together. Love was not stealing kisses behind the janitor's closet and whispering sweet nothings in the dark as Seto's fingers laced through his hair like pretty curtains.

Because there was blood on the bed and his lips and his skin and he hurt and he hurt and he hurt. Because Seto would never say 'I love you' despite his own confessions of lust and love and want. Because Seto's eyes were always dark and so dark and so black and so blue when he kissed him and he knew that he was lying and he wanted to open his eyes but he couldn't because there were no curtains at all.

Because when he sits back, heavily, on the bed, Seto shifts and opens his eyes and there are shadows all around him when he looks at him.

There's blood on the ground and running down his legs but Jounouchi doesn't notice because he's saying "I love you," over and over again like a broken music box even though his heart hurts.

And Seto merely smiles.

**fin.**

**[afterward]**

Finished June 24th, 2004.

Written and modified in 48 minutes.

1119 words.

More like confused!Jounouchi. eyeroll He's so girlish here…absolutely hates her Jounouchi because he's always so out-of-character nearly pulls her hair out in frustration

The title "Bottles of Sand" relates to an hourglass, which relates to time, which relates to Seto waiting for Jounouchi to break, flounder, and drown. An hourglass can be controlled, but only if it's in your hands. "Seto kisses" is supposed to be a noun [Schuldich-muse, it's not supposed to be poetry. –laugh- Thanks for the help too: I added "alternate universe."] Um, and Schuldich-muse? When Jounouchi's saying "I love you," he's trying to say it toward Kaiba, not me –sweatdrop-.

**endlog[11:20 am]**


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